Trial and Error
by NiteJasmine
Summary: NOT part of my Comfort Series! Something entirely different! House is kidnapped and tortured by some brutally nasty research doctors. Warning-They hurt him! Rated M/Adult for strong language and mature theme.
1. Chapter 1

**TRIAL & ERROR -B**

_**This is definitely **__**NOT**__** part of my Comfort Series!**_

_**I wrote this after having a particularly nasty experience with some recent medical procedures… Anyway…**_

**House is kidnapped and subjected to a forced drug trial by some unscrupulous and rather brutal research doctors. House has to try and keep his cool and survive the torment they inflict, and find some way to escape…**

**Rated M/Adult for language and mature themes (like ALL my stuff!!!)**

**All the usual and applicable disclaimers and warnings apply, such as don't like - don't read; I don't own House or any other characters, or anything or anybody else, blah, blah, blah…**

**NITEJASMINE**

TRIAL & ERROR

House MD fanfic by NiteJasmine

#####

House struggled awake, it felt like he was trying to swim through mud. With a concentrated effort, he managed to open his eyes, blinking several times from the glare of the bright lights in the room. Slowly, the features of the room began to come into focus. Everything was intensely white. Walls, ceiling, lights. And no windows. The smell of sterile antiseptic assaulted his nostrils. Then he heard the familiar beeping of monitors. A hospital room. He was in a hospital room. His brain was still trying to wrestle itself out of it's deep slumber. He tried to lift a hand up, but it barely moved. He tried the other hand, more forcefully, but with the same result. He looked down, his mind shifting gears, finally coming to the realization that _he_ was laying in a hospital bed, wearing only a light green hospital gown, and in full restraints. The monitors he heard were all connected to _his_ body, he had clumps of wires attached all over him. And there was an IV in his left arm, which had an additional restraint on it, securing his elbow firmly to the bedrail. His breathing picked up as he tried again to move his limbs, but both of his wrists and both of his ankles were fastened securely and lashed to the to the bed. He was unable to move at all. He felt a wave of panic surge through him. What the hell was going on? Where the hell was he?

"Number 6 is awake," he heard a stern, thickly accented female voice say, from somewhere off to his left. It startled him. The voice then materialized next to his bed. A lean but muscular looking woman was standing there, wearing a white lab coat and holding a chart. She regarded him with steely cool gray-blue eyes, stoically serious. Her short blond hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. No makeup, no jewelry. He heard other voices, but couldn't recognize the language, he just knew that it was not English. The woman began checking the various wires and tubes connected to him with detached efficiency, then pulled a stethoscope out of her pocket, slipped it under the collar of his loosely fitting gown, and pressed it to his chest.

"Where… am I?" he asked. His voice sounded halting and a little slurred.

"Quiet," the woman snapped back. "Breathe," she told him. He obeyed, using the time to keep trying to fully wake up. She listened to several places on his chest, then replaced her stethoscope back into her pocket. A deep male voice outside the room asked a question in that odd foreign tongue… German? Russian? He couldn't tell. Could be fucking Peruvian Mountain Goat for all he knew. The woman by his bed scribbled on his chart and answered the question in clear but thickly accented English.

"Yes. Number 6 is stable. All vitals within parameters. Baseline established." She reached out and put her fingers against the side of his throat, staring at the monitor over his head, confirming his heart rate numbers.

_Number 6? What the hell did that mean?_ He wondered to himself, his mind still trying to claw it's way into lucidity. Whatever it was, he decided it probably wasn't good. He balled his hands into fists, and tried pulling against his restraints again, not sure why, but not having anything else to do. He tried moving his legs, which brought a sharp pang of pain from his right thigh, making him wince and clench his teeth.

"Stop that." The woman said sharply. Then she looked down at him, irritated. "You are restrained for your own protection. You will only hurt yourself by resisting." She looked back up at the monitor. "So relax. You are not going anywhere."

"And who the hell are you? Where the fuck _am _I? What the hell is going on?" he demanded. She did not answer him, she simply turned, hung his chart back at the foot of his bed, and walked briskly out of the room.

He laid there, working to stay calm. _Think, think._ _What's the last thing you remember?_ His mind grasping through the swirling fog of his memory. _Long holiday weekend coming…_ he remembered. _Gonna have a full 4 days off..._ He remembered walking through the parking garage, heading towards his bike, looking forward to being alone with his scotch and his piano… Then… nothing. He tried to refocus his thoughts, there had to be more. _What happened? _But the memories would not come. It was like an old movie film that had broken in the projector. Just a big blank wall. The only next tangible thought he had was waking up here. Wherever _here_ was. And he certainly did not have a very good feeling about the situation he currently found himself in. _So just relax, be smart. Gather as much information as you can. Bide your time until you can figure a way out of whatever the hell this is…_

That was a great plan, but already, lying there strapped to the bed, his leg was starting to howl it's discomfort and demand his attention, giving him a small clue as to how long he may have been unconscious. Sharp, lancing pains were beginning to radiate out from his right thigh, like they always did when he happened to get late for some reason in taking his Vicodin. It was going to turn into a full blown screamer if he didn't get his meds into his system, pronto. He started hollering for someone.

It wasn't long before the grey-eyed woman returned again, a look of absolute cold indifference on her face. House went quiet immediately upon her return to the room, panting for air. His eyes followed her as she walked over to the edge of his bed again, and hung a bag of clear liquid on his IV stand, but he couldn't see what it was.

"I had pills… in my jacket pocket," he ventured, still breathing a bit heavily from his hollering excursion as well as the building pain in his thigh. "Pain killers. I need them," he said, gritting his teeth as a new bolt of pain radiated from his strained and immobile leg.

"Ah, yes. Your Vicodin," the grey-eyed woman said coolly. Then a half smirk curled across her mouth. "You won't be needing those." She said it so matter-of-factly, it caused a new lance of fear to bolt through him. What the hell did they have planned for him?

He watched her pull a syringe from her lab coat pocket and reach for his IV lead, and his eyes widened.

"No, no… wait," he pleaded, unable to keep the fear from his voice as his eyes were glued to the needle she was holding.

"Quiet!" came her loud and sharp reply. "You will sleep now. We will begin in the morning."

_Sleep? He had just managed to fucking wake up… No… fight it, fight it…_

And he watched her as she slid the needle into his IV feed and push the plunger, which dumped whatever it was immediately into his vein. There was no fighting it. His vision fuzzed over as his eyes slid shut and blackness overtook him. He went limp on the bed. The woman calmly checked all of his vital signs, logged them onto the chart at the foot of his bed, and left the room, not bothering to dim the bright lights.

#####

Again, House struggled to wake up. Battling through a thick, drug-induced fog. Over the years since his surgery, he had experimented a lot, and had become quite accustomed to having various drugs in his system, both prescription and at times, illicit, sometimes even blended together, and many times trailed with a healthy chaser of tequila, scotch, whiskey, or whatever. And he always thought that he had developed a pretty high tolerance for being able to function 'under the influence.' But whatever these bastards were pumping into him to knock him out was some pretty heavy duty shit. He could barely force his eyes open.

As his body and mind pushed their way into the waking world, his leg pain took front and center stage. His pain escalated about 3 times as fast as his rise into the conscious world. Within minutes, he was in agonizing pain. The pain _was_ pretty bad, but not intolerable. He had been in much worse pain than this before. But this was no walk in the park either. He could definitely feel the pronounced lack of any pain killers in his system whatsoever. Plus, he had been held in place, flat on his back, and limbs strapped down for who knew how long. And not only was his leg already howling, his back and shoulders ached as well. He grunted through his clenched teeth. He tried to be quiet, hoping to keep his suffering from his captors. But it was useless. He already had an audience.

"Number 6 is awake." He heard her thickly accented voice say, and knew that meant him. He managed to force his eyes open and look over at the grey-eyed woman sitting on a stool next to him. She still maintained that same cool, detached gaze, absolutely non-committal and completely non-caring.

He was battling with the waves of pain from his leg, and struggling to keep himself under control.

"I really need my painkillers," he said to her. "Please," he added. She could not have cared less.

"Pain scale. 1 to 10," she said, no smile at all. "Give me a number," she demanded flatly.

"Why are you doing this to me? What the _fuck_ do you _want_?" he yelled, frustrated.

A smug look came to her face, and she leaned closer to him.

"Oh, you will see… soon enough…" she said, with a smile that was filled with evil malice.

"But know this, this can be good for you, or it can be very bad. So answer my question. Give me a number. And do not dare to lie to me. I will know."

He stared at her for a moment.

"Six," he finally answered, honestly.

"Good," she said. "Not high enough yet, but good."

_What? Oh, Fuck. Not high enough? How long were they going to make him lay here and take this? _

"How fucking high to you want it?!" he demanded.

He heard a low laugh from her that sent shivers through him. His plan was to just try and stay neutral, go along. Gather info and try to work and/or talk his way out of whatever this mess was. But this cold grey-eyed captor was enjoying his pain and suffering way too much. What the fuck were they trying to do? What did they want? He had no idea. But he knew if he wanted to survive this, he had better think of something.

"Hey," he shot out at the grey-eyed woman. "You know my wife has got to know I'm missing. I'm sure she's already looking for me…" he tried.

He was met immediately with more cold laughter from her.

She leaned close into him, seeing him try to hide his fear and reveling in it.

"Nice try." She said with her thick accent. "You live alone. There is no wife. No girlfriend. No pets. Not even a goldfish. You also tend to avoid answering your phone or your pager," she leaned in even closer.

"There will be nobody looking for you. It will be days before anyone even realizes that you are missing. And by then, we will have what we want and it will not matter." She gave him a cruel, evil smile when she finished her explanation. He felt himself cringe, realizing that they had been watching him, that his being here was selective, not random.

Smugly satisfied for the time being, grey-eyes turned and left the room, leaving him alone with his pain.

He had no idea how long she was gone, it felt like hours. He had definitely climbed the pain scale higher since she had left. He was sweating and panting through clenched teeth, barely able to catch his breath. His leg was screaming.

Finally, the grey-eyed bitch returned.

"Pain scale." She said coolly. "Number."

He glared through his pain-filled eyes at the woman next to his bed.

"Eight," he grunted, closing his eyes and pulling against his restraints again, even though he knew it was futile. "Fuck. Eight…"

"Excellent," she answered, a thin smile coming to her face.

"Eyvon, da ve hekshen," she called loudly in their guttural mountain goat language, looking towards the hallway. The male voice responded with what sounded like a question. She looked back at House's face, gasping and twisted in pain. His grey-eyed captor fixed her gaze onto him, tilted her head, then smiled cruelly.

"Yes. Number 6 is ready…" he heard her purr. "We will begin Phase 1." And she turned and left the room again.

#####

She was not gone very long this time. When she returned, she went around his bed, tugging and tightening his restraints. He felt his fear and anxiety ratchet up another notch. When she was satisfied that he was strapped to the bed as securely as possible, she walked back to his side, snagging his chart and tucking it under her arm on the way. She pulled a syringe from her pocket, and held it up for him to see. The liquid inside it was a faint blue color.

"I'm going to inject you now," she said flatly, removing the needle guard and reaching for his IV. "You will be uncomfortable for a few moments. But it will pass." He had no time to mentally prepare any further before she shoved the needle into the junction tube and pushed the plunger.

The drug slammed through his body like a high speed train wreck. His fingers and toes curled up, and every muscle in his body went into a full blown seizure. His back arched up off the bed, pushing his head deeper into the small pillow, and all four of his limbs tried to bend themselves in half, pulling painfully hard against their bindings. He tried to scream, but no sound came out. His lungs were not working. He heard multiple monitor alarms and buzzers going off over his head, but the grey-eyed bitch was just standing there, calmly observing him, scribbling notes into his chart.

There was no way to know how long he had stayed frozen in full body seizure like that, but it felt like an eternity. His vision began to darken around the edges, his lungs demanding air that they were unable to get. _Can't…. breathe…_ his mind screamed. Then, finally, mercifully, he felt the hellacious vice grips of the seizure begin to release their hold. Slowly, he began to sink back down into the bed, finally able to start getting some air into his oxygen starved lungs. He took small pulls of air at first, as much as his slowly relaxing muscles would allow, gradually getting deeper and deeper. The seizure finally passed completely, leaving his whole body limp and shaking, still loudly gulping huge lungfulls of air. The blaring of alarms from the monitors gradually stopped, and resumed their normal soft beeping tones. He struggled to relax and get his breathing back under control.

_Holy fuck. That was their idea of uncomfortable?_

"Pain scale," grey-eyes demanded. "Right now. Number."

He didn't want to play this game anymore.

"Fuck you," he rasped out, his throat dry from his ragged breathing.

She pounced on him immediately, her steel grey eyes glittering with malice. She grabbed his jaw with one strong hand and wrenched his face towards her, leaning closer to him.

"You will do what you are told," she hissed at him. "You will cooperate. If not, your participation will be terminated immediately. You will be put to sleep and you will not wake up. And that is only if I am feeling generous. Other options are much more painful." She moved her hand to his throat, and applied firm pressure there, letting him know that she could completely cut off his air supply or crush his windpipe whenever she felt like it.

"Do not test my patience. Give me a number. Now!" She demanded loudly.

"I told you, eight." he grunted back at her through clenched teeth.

"No!" she shouted at him. "You're lying!" She lowered her voice, and got even closer to his face. "Take a moment, and think very hard. And give me a _real_ number." She studied his face, searching his eyes, trying to pry open his mind.

He turned his attention to his wilted body, quickly assessing the inputs. He focused on his right leg, and felt… nothing. He went quiet, and stilled himself. He tentatively wiggled it, just a little, expecting it to erupt in brutal agony, but there was nothing at all. There was absolutely no pain coming from his leg, or any other part of his body. Nothing. He couldn't keep the look of disbelief off his face. His grey-eyed captor saw it too. She released her grip on his neck and stood back up, smugly folding her arms and curling a wicked smile across her lips.

"Ahhh haahhh, yes," she cooed. "The pain. It is gone, yes?"

He was shocked. He kept waiting for the pain to come exploding back, but his leg remained quiet. He looked up at her and nodded. All he felt was a weird kind of cool tingling sensation, like he had just brushed against a frosty window, but it was all over him. Like a faint buzzing throughout his body.

"Well then. I would say that all things considered," she waved a hand dismissively over his body, and looking at his restraints. "That presently you would be at about… a 1, correct?" She asked.

"Yeah," he answered, his voice still a little hoarse. "One," he said, nodding.

"Very good," she said. Then the evil smile broadened on her face. "Enjoy it while you can. It is only temporary." She chuckled softly as she turned and walked away from him, pausing to scribble more notes on his chart, and replacing it at the foot of his bed. Then she looked up at him again.

"There will be attendants coming shortly. They will see to your maintenance needs. They will bathe you. You will cooperate with them. There will be no resistance. Understood?" She asked, all smiles gone.

"Yes," he answered, a little weakly. He was feeling drained after the morning's ordeal, and just wanted to rest. He didn't have the strength or the energy to fight anybody. And as much as he hated to admit it, it _was_ deliciously nice to not be in writhing pain for a change. He laid his head back and closed his eyes as he heard her leave the room, feeling wrung out and exhausted. He still had that soft fuzzy tingle throughout his body, but no pain whatsoever.

Not long after that, the 'attendants' arrived. Two lean, trim males dressed in green scrubs. They released him from his restraints, and methodically went about seeing to his needs. They exchanged minimal words with each other, in their own foreign tongue, as they completed their tasks. Changing his catheter bags, checking his monitor and IV leads. And then they had bathed him from head to toe, and dressed him in a fresh but still very loose light green gown. They finished by rolling him and replacing his bed sheets with clean fresh linens. All done very professionally and with detached efficiency. He was completely compliant, he did not resist. When they were done, they reattached his restraints, but not as tightly as before. Then they quietly left the room. Even with the bright lights glaring, he fell asleep almost immediately.

#####

He woke up to find grey-eyes standing next to his bed, scribbling on his chart. She verbally informed the invisible man in the hallway that number 6 was awake.

He had no way of knowing how long he had been asleep, but he felt well rested. And since there were no drugs to fight through this time, his brain sprang into consciousness fairly quickly. His attention went immediately to his right leg. It was still quiet. He moved it around, as much as the restraints would allow. Nothing. No pain at all, just the light buzzing tingle all over. His brain struggled to balance the fact that he was strapped to a hospital bed against his will, being injected by snarling strangers with mystery drugs, but at the same time, God, he hadn't felt this good in years.

"What did you give me?" He asked cautiously.

"You do not ask the questions," she replied sharply, leveling an even stare at him. She thought for a moment, then put the chart down.

"However, you are a doctor," she said, still studying his face. "You are progressing well, and you have been cooperative. So I will answer you."

"The drug you were given is a neuro micronic phaso inhibitor," she continued. "It bonds itself to the body's central nervous system, altering how pain signals are processed and interpreted by the brain. It is called "Ice." It is responsible for the tingling feeling that you are experiencing. The violent seizures that occur upon introduction are an unfortunate side effect that we have unable to eliminate. However, the pain eradicating effect of the drug is long term."

"But you said the effect was only temporary," he countered.

Her evil grin returned immediately.

"Ahh, yes. It is only temporary for _you_," she smiled. "You see, this is only the first part of the test. We have confirmed that we can control and eliminate your _naturally_ induced pain. Now the _real _portion of the test begins." She picked up his chart, walked down and replaced it at the foot of his bed.

"I hope your short rest has renewed your strength. You will need it."

"Number 6 is ready for Phase 2," she said, and left the room.

#####

Again, she was not gone for long. And, once again, she went around his bed, pulling and tugging on his restraints. Only this time, she pulled them as tight as they would go. He tried to fight down the fear and panic that he felt rising up inside. The grey-eyed bitch really seemed to be enjoying herself, watching his valiant attempts to stay calm.

"These must be as tight as possible," she said evenly. "You will be more than a little uncomfortable this time." She stopped and studied his reaction, seeing his fear and anxiety building, relishing it.

She walked over and stood next to him, pulling the syringe from her pocket. The liquid inside this one was a pale pink. Grey-eyes got very serious as she held the needle up for him to see it.

"This is nicknamed "Fire." It can undeniably kill you. This is the first of three doses you will be given. I do not intend to allow you to die at this point in the test, so if you want to stay alive, you must follow my instructions. I must know where you are on the pain scale at specific intervals and times. So, when I ask for a number, you must answer me immediately. It is the only way that you will survive this and stay alive. Understood?" She reached for his IV. "Oh, and if you wish to scream, go right ahead, it does not bother me." She finished with a sneering smile.

"Don't, please," he said, not caring if he sounded like he was begging. At this point, he certainly wasn't above that. "Please, no…" but he may as well have been talking to the wall. She shoved the needle into his IV and pushed the plunger, then picked up his chart and stood there watching him, waiting.

He didn't feel anything instantly, not like the inhibitor drug. Just a slow creeping warmth, coming from the center of his body and radiating outward to the tips of his fingers and toes. The temperature began increasing. Getting hotter and hotter. His breathing and heart rate picked up. He made a move to ball his hands into fists, but that only made the heat in his hands jump higher where his skin touched anything, so he flattened his hands back out again. The burning sensations were painful, but this was actually not as bad as he had expected, at least not so far. He was determined to try to keep that little fact a secret from his female tormentor.

"Number." The bitch demanded.

"Six," he answered quickly.

"Don't lie to me!" She snapped.

"God Dammit, alright, alright. Four," he answered honestly, closing his eyes for a moment before opening them again, pissed at himself for apparently being such a lousy liar.

"Good," she replied, and marked his chart. Then she pulled the second syringe from her pocket.

_Oh, Fuck, No, no. Not so fast… _Was all he got the chance to think before the second dose was shoved in and delivered.

The heat factor went through the roof. The burning tore through him like white hot lightning bolts. It was quickly getting even hotter, scorching every nerve ending throughout his entire body. The blistering heat also began to pool in his right thigh, tapping into those damaged nerves and sending out sharp jolts of very familiar pain that rapidly increased in intensity. He was breathing hard, trying not to move and cause even more pain, but it was getting more and more difficult. His gasping and groaning was getting steadily louder, even through his clenched teeth.

"Number," again from the bitch.

"Seven," he said first, followed quickly by "Eight!" which he nearly howled, as he felt his right leg reawaken with a vengeance. It exploded in agony, battling for top honors with the red hot drug ravaging his body.

He saw the cold grey-eyed bitch grin and mark his chart. Then she pulled the third syringe out and reach for his IV.

"Nooooo!" he yelled out, "No, noooo, no more! Stop! Please, please stop!!!" he was desperate to say anything that would stop her, but of course, it did not. She calmly delivered the third dose.

It felt like his blood had turned to liquid, molten lava. And his right leg was screaming. The pain was excruciating. All rational thoughts left his mind. He began thrashing on the bed, pulling hard against the restraints that would not budge. His entire body was on fire. He was being burned alive. He was going to die.

"Number," he vaguely heard the voice demand.

He opened his mouth, and screamed.

The grey-eyed bitch wrote a number on his chart. She looked down proudly at it. _10._

He had no idea how long he was being forced to endure their brutal torture. He had no concept of time. He screamed over and over again, thrashing on the bed, pulling so hard against his bindings that dark rings of purple bruises were forming at his wrists and ankles. It felt like eternity in the lowest pit of hell.

Then suddenly, he went into a full body seizure. His screaming stopped abruptly, as his lungs were seemingly frozen in place, unable to function. His mind screamed for air, but his body could not provide it. He was vaguely aware of the monitor alarms blaring overhead. Seconds later, blackness overtook him.

#####

He slowly regained consciousness and realized that there were other people in the room. Multiple voices. Bizarre guttural words he could not understand. Speaking to each other quickly in low but urgent tones.

He fluttered his eyes open. Through his hazy vision he saw a crash cart next to his bed, where grey-eyes usually stood. But she wasn't there. Instead there was a tall woman with short black hair standing there, holding the defib paddles. Upon seeing him open his eyes, the woman silently turned and handed the paddles to a man behind her. The chatter from the others turned a bit more excited, and they hurriedly collected their code gear and hustled out of the room.

The woman leaned closer to him.

"Can you hear me?" Came her soft voice. No cruel, guttural accent whatsoever. Her voice was warm, caring, and definitely American.

He looked at her and weakly nodded.

She pulled out a small light and checked both of his eyes.

"You were given the inhibitor. The seizure stopped your heart, but we shocked it back into rhythm. Pain gone?" She asked. He was exhausted and traumatized, but all he felt was the cool tingling buzz of the inhibitor drug. He nodded again.

"Good," she said with a heavy sigh. "Get some rest…"

"Help me," he croaked out, his voice hoarse and parched from his screaming. "Please. They're going to kill me. I can't… take any more… please…" his ragged voice faded to a whisper.

"You're going to be OK. I won't let them…" she started to say, when suddenly, the grey-eyed bitch burst into the room and yanked the other woman harshly back away from the bed. He groaned in fear and frustration.

"Get away from my patient!" the grey-eyed bitch yelled. "Get out!"

The American recovered quickly, and stopped short, pulling her arm back from the bitch's grip.

"No! You nearly killed him!" She yelled back.

"He is not dead," grey-eyes hissed.

"You are reckless," the American fired. "You gave him too much too fast."

"Irrelevant. Why waste time? It is the result I want. I needed a level 10. And the result is the same, regardless of the time it takes to achieve it." She paused, and looked over at House's drained, still form laying on the bed. "He is pain free again, yes?"

The American was quiet for a moment. "Yes," she answered finally.

"Well then, congratulations are in order!" The bitch boasted loudly. "Fire and Ice is a success! Your inhibitor drug works perfectly, both for naturally induced pain as well as maximum dosages of the chemical pain-inducing drug that we have synthesized. Now, interrogations can be done without killing so many subjects. Whole new information extraction techniques can be developed! This will be an extremely profitable tool. I know there are many countries who will be very interested in getting their hands on it, and paying top dollar. You should be very proud."

The American looked over at him, but there was only sadness on her face.

"My inhibitor was _never_ meant to be used in chemical torture," she spat, looking back at the bitch. "Fire and Ice is _your_ twisted creation, _not_ mine. You brought me here and forced me to produce the Ice, but you cannot force me to condone what you are doing with it."

Grey-eyes moved closer to the American, her steel cold eyes glittering with menace, like a predator about to pounce on it's prey.

"You be careful with your tone," she warned, "Or perhaps you would like to be on the receiving end of our little achievement, eh doctor?" And grey-eyes let out a harsh cruel laugh, but it only lasted for a minute. Then she got serious again.

"Alright, enough celebration. You got his heart started again. Your work is done. Now get out."

The American did not move. "No."

The bitch glared at her. "What did you say?"

"You heard me," the American said, holding her ground. "No. I'm staying with him."

The bitch thought about it for a moment, then shrugged her shoulders.

"Very well," she said flippantly. "Stay here with the _lab rat_ if you wish. See that he gets some rest. We will begin the Final Phase as soon as he is ready." And grey-eyes turned and walked out of the room. She paused and spoke again to someone else in the hallway. "Keep an eye on her," and then her footsteps faded away.

He had laid there still and quiet, listening to their entire exchange. It explained everything. He was just a lab rat. He shuddered inside to think what the final phase might be. Although he was feeling the tingle of the inhibitor, he wasn't sure how much more of this kind of punishment he could take. Both his body and his sanity were close to their breaking points.

The American pulled a chair over next to his bed and sat down. She studied his drawn, tired face for a moment.

"I'll stay here and keep the vultures away from you for a while," she said softly. "You should get some sleep."

He was too exhausted to consider doing anything else. He closed his eyes with a faint sigh and slipped quickly into a deep sleep.

#####

He awoke sometime later to the feel of firm hands on him. He slowly opened his eyes to find the same two attendants calmly and efficiently cleaning, bathing, dressing and tending to him. He looked to his left, and the American woman was still there, her chair pushed back against the wall. She looked very tired. Once the two men had finished and left, she moved her chair back up closer to the bed.

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

"OK," he answered. He still felt weak and drained, but there was no pain.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Greg."

"I'm Amanda. Amanda Martelli."

He was quiet for a moment. "You created the inhibitor drug?"

"Yeah," she said, sighing heavily. "Sure did. All those years of R & D in the lab to end up here. With my little wonder drug being used in tandem with chemical torture. Quite an achievement." She said bitterly.

"It's an incredible achievement. It works," he told her.

"Yeah, thanks," she answered, looking down at the floor. "But it doesn't matter now. The bastards brought me here and forced me to produce it for them. For their twisted use."

"I have no idea where we are," he said quietly, "but we have to get out of here. Before we both end up dead."

"I don't know where we are either, but you'll be going home soon, you're the last one," she told him, looking up at him tiredly. "They won't kill me, _I'm_ the only one who knows how to produce _my_ drug. And they won't kill you either. It's one of the things I demanded in order to keep producing the inhibitor for them, I personally oversee all of the subjects being released and returned home. That's what the Final Phase preps you for. You will receive two injections. The first one scrubs and purges the inhibitor from your system. The second knocks you out and fogs your memory. You already experienced that one when they brought you here. By this time tomorrow, you will be waking up in your own bed. You'll be tired and sore, and what little pieces you do manage to remember from all of this will just seem like a bad dream."

_Purge the inhibitor? No…_

"You're going to put my pain back?" he asked, his eyes going wide. "No. You can't. You can't do that."

"You'll be exactly like you were before you came here…" she began, but he interrupted her.

"NO! That's what I don't want!" he said, his voice rising. "I live with relentless chronic pain, every day. Every fucking day. Your Ice takes it away. After everything I've gone through, at least let me keep this. Don't put the pain back. Please."

"It's not up to me," her voice was heavy with sadness. "The bitch with the sadist complex handles all the injections."

"No," he said weakly, laying his head back and closing his eyes.

The American went quiet. Five minutes later, the grey-eyed bitch came back into the room, carrying two needles.

#####

House rolled over in his own bed, and slowly opened his eyes. Rain was pelting his bedroom window. He laid there, staring at the ceiling, and struggled to get his brain working. He blinked a couple times, trying to clear away the fog. What the hell was wrong with him? He felt like he had gotten run over by a truck. Twice. His whole body was sore, and his leg was howling with it's familiar relentless pain. Had he passed out? Downed too much scotch last night? He couldn't remember. It was all a blank. Why couldn't he remember anything? He never blacked out. _Well, there's always a first time._ He thought to himself. _And speaking of time, what time is it? Hell, what day is it? What the fuck did I do to myself?_

He rolled over and sat up, his hands helping swing his right leg onto the floor, grimacing as he got a vicious stab of pain from it. He reached a hand up for his Vicodin bottle, which was sitting right there next to his bedside. He stopped halfway there and froze, staring at his wrist. There were dark purple rings of bruises around it. _What the hell?_ He checked his other wrist, it had the same marks. _How did those get there?_ He searched his memory, he had no explanation whatsoever. Then he got a brief flash of an image in his head. _Tied down. Strapped to a bed. Struggling, fighting…_ And just as quickly, the flash was gone. He shook his head. This was crazy. What the hell had happened to him?

Another image snapped into his head, like a camera shutter clicking. _IVs, wires, needles. Lots of needles. Screaming in pain… _The image vanished again, just as quickly. Was he losing his mind? No. There had to be a rational explanation. He had just had too much to drink, and must have hurt himself somehow getting to bed. God knows he had certainly done things like that enough times before. _And I must have had one zinger of a nightmare_. That's all. Yeah, that's what it had to be.

And he certainly wasn't going to be sharing this little story with anyone. Especially Wilson. His overprotective friend would have a field day with something like this.

He rubbed his howling leg, then reached again for his Vicodin bottle. He picked it up, thumbed the cap off, and spilled a couple of the little white pills into his palm. But something else came tumbling out of the bottle with them. He saw the top end of a glass tube. He dropped the pills on the bed, and pulled the thing out of the bottle. It was a long, slender vial. He picked it up and looked at it, holding it up to the dim gray light coming from the window. The liquid inside had a faint blue color…

#####


	2. Chapter 2

**TRIAL & ERROR Chapter 2**

**The saga continues… more on the way!!!**

**Rated M/Adult for language and mature themes (like ALL my stuff!!!)**

**All the usual and applicable disclaimers and warnings apply, such as don't like - don't read; I don't own House or any other characters, or anything or anybody else, blah, blah, blah…**

**NITEJASMINE**

TRIAL & ERROR, Chapter 2

House MD fanfic by NiteJasmine

#####

House studied the blue liquid filled vial for a few moments, trying to force something up in his mind as to what it was, where it came from… but there was nothing. Frustrated, he set the vial down on his nightstand. He decided to deal with that later. He could tell from the light outside that it was already late morning. It was time to get his ass in gear. At least he would have the rest of the long weekend to let himself recover.

It took some effort, but after swallowing a couple Vicodin, House finally managed to get himself vertical and hobble into the bathroom. He braced himself against the sink for a moment and looked down. That's when he saw the rings of purple around both his ankles. More bruises. _What the hell had he done to himself?_ He reached over and turned on the hot water tap, then wrangled himself into the shower. The soothing hot water felt wonderful. He stood there and let it cascade over him, breathing in the warm steam. While he was standing there, a rapid series of quick snapshots flashed through his head. _A needle. Pale blue liquid in it. Woman holding it. Injecting it into his IV. His body arching off the bed in seizure…_

He snapped open his eyes and blinked a few times, again trying to make more memories come, but that was it. _An IV?_ He looked down at his arms, examining them. And found what he was looking for. There on the inside of his left arm were the telltale leftover marks from an IV. He felt a wave of uncertain fear tighten in his stomach. _There's more going on here than just a bad night's drinking binge. Something else happened to me. But what???_

He finished his shower, dried off, and threw on a loose pair of comfortable jeans and a T shirt. He snatched the blue vial off his nightstand and limped into the living room with it, flopping onto the couch. He set the vial on the coffee table in front of him, then reached for the TV remote and turned on the news. The weather man was just going on about how the weather had been so crappy over the long holiday weekend, and how everyone was grumbling to be back at work today. House stared at the screen. _No. No way._ He stabbed at the remote buttons and clicked on the TV listing channel, which shows the date and time. He gaped at the date. It was four days since he had been walking to his bike in the hospital garage. He had completely lost four fucking days.

A loud knocking on his apartment door startled him, he nearly jumped off the sofa. He heard Wilson yelling "House!" through the closed door. But before he could even get up, Wilson had his key in the lock and was barging into the apartment. Wilson stopped short as soon as he saw House sitting there on the couch, with a frustrated huff. Wilson turned around and slammed the front door shut, then walked quickly over and stood right in front of his disheveled friend.

"House, where the hell have you been?!" He demanded loudly.

House didn't answer him, he just sat there, staring at the floor, still grappling with the shock of four lost days.

Wilson ran his hands through his hair, then put his hands on his hips. He was clearly very annoyed.

"I have been calling you for 4 days god dammit! When you didn't show up at the hospital for work this morning, I figured I had better get over here and check on you. And, as usual, here you are, sitting in front of the TV without a care in the world! Did it ever occur to you to call someone and tell them you're going to be out of town? Let your friends know that you're still breathing?"

"Wilson…" House started, looking up at his angry friend. But Wilson cut him off.

"Honestly House, I don't know why I even bother," Wilson said, and started pacing back and forth. "You clearly don't give a rat's ass if anyone worries about you. I mean, seriously, how would anyone know if something ever did happen to you, huh? Have you ever stopped for two seconds to think about that?!"

Flash. _"Nobody will be looking for you…" Thick accent. Female voice._ _Cold grey eyes, laughing at him..._ Another wave of fear curled in his stomach. House swallowed hard.

Wilson was still on his tirade.

"OK. Typical of you with the silent treatment, fine," Wilson said, still pacing. "Will you at least tell me where the hell you've been for four days?!"

House looked up at his friend again.

"I don't know," he said quietly, then looked at the floor again.

Wilson stopped pacing and stared at him.

"What? What the hell do you mean you don't know?" he demanded. But then he noticed the pale color of his friend. House's eyes were skipping around the room, like he was mentally searching for something. Finally, his friend's eyes came back up and met his own, and he saw something there that chilled him. Wilson saw fear. Something had definitely scared Gregory House. And whatever that something was, it had to be pretty monumental.

"I mean, I… can't remember anything," House said haltingly, his voice soft. "I have… bruises," he said, holding one wrist out, "and I don't know how I got them." Wilson saw the dark, thick purple rings and nearly gasped out loud. His eyes widened.

"And apparently I've had an IV in this arm," House continued, showing Wilson the marks. "But I have no idea where I've been or what happened to me. And just before you showed up, I found out what day it is. Wilson, I've lost 4 whole days, and I can't remember anything. All I get are these… flashes, and they're not pleasant." House slowly lowered his head.

"Holy shit, House," Wilson said, shrugging off his coat. He tossed it aside and sat down next to his slightly shaken friend on the sofa. "Let me see," and he reached for the injured wrist, gently examining the rings of bruises.

"Ankles too," House offered. Wilson leaned down and lifted the edge of his pant leg, seeing more of the thick purple marks.

"House," he said cautiously, "these… look like bruises from hospital restraints. And an IV? Maybe you were in a hospital, maybe you were in an accident… No. Your bike is right outside the front door. There's not a mark on it."

House shook his head.

"No other injuries on me either," House answered. "And why would I wake up in my own bed? Besides, _that_ was stuck inside my Vicodin bottle. I have no idea what it is," he said, pointing to the thin blue vial on the table.

Wilson stared at the mysterious vial of liquid. What the hell had happened to his friend? Terrible thoughts were nibbling at the edges of his mind, but he pushed them away. He snagged the remote and shut off the TV. Then he leaned forward, looked squarely into his friend's face, and sighed heavily.

"Alright. Let's do this logically. Start from the beginning, wherever that might be. And tell me everything you _can _remember. Every detail. Let's figure out what happened to you."

House nodded. He started with walking to his bike in the hospital garage, and how everything was a big blank after that. Except the snapshot-like flashes he was getting since he woke up. He told Wilson exactly what he had been seeing in his head, no matter how disjointed it seemed. Then he detailed everything about waking up this morning and discovering the bruises and IV marks, and then all the missing time.

"And that's where you came in," he finally finished.

Wilson studied his face, and both men went quiet for a few moments, not wanting to verbalize what they were both thinking. Finally, it was House who took the plunge.

"I was kidnapped," he said flatly.

"Sure sounds that way," Wilson agreed.

"I must have been. It fits. It explains everything. I must have been in pain and struggling, because restraints don't leave bruises like this unless they're pulled on pretty hard. And there were obviously drugs involved, which explains the IV marks and the memory loss," he went on.

Wilson felt a little better seeing House swing into his normal diagnostic mode, but the realization was chilling.

"I don't know who or why, but _that_ has got to be the key," House continued, pointing to the blue vial. "I think I was injected with it. I don't know what's in there, but it was hidden in with my pills. There has to be a reason for that. I have a feeling that I'm _not_ supposed to have whatever that is."

"We should take it to the lab, analyze it, quietly," Wilson said. "Make sure it's not some kind of toxin. Do you feel up to coming into work for a while?" he asked, standing up and reaching for his coat.

"Sure," answered House, getting up slowly.

"Put a different shirt on," Wilson said. "You don't need any of the staff seeing those bruises and thinking you're into kinky sex."

"But that's what I'm always _trying_ to get them to think," House quipped back, but headed off towards his bedroom for a long sleeved shirt anyway.

Moments later, they were in Wilson's car, headed towards PPTH. The pale blue vial tucked safely in House's pocket.

#####

The broad spectrum test results were frustratingly inconclusive. There was nothing even remotely like this stuff in any data base anywhere. The two doctors ended up with more questions than answers by the time the initial test was finished. The only thing they were sure of is that it was not any kind of toxin.

Wilson wanted to launch into a whole new battery of testing, but House had said no. Whatever the stuff was, there wasn't much of it, and until they could come up with some kind of theory or direction, House didn't want to waste it on pointless tests. Besides, it was now the middle of the afternoon and Wilson could see how tired his friend was, leaning heavily on his cane and rubbing his eyes. It was time to get him back home and let him get some rest. So they straightened up the lab and quietly left the building through the basement exit, successfully avoiding contact with anyone of consequence at the hospital.

#####

Once back at House's apartment, Wilson flipped open his cell phone and ordered a couple of pizzas as House popped a Vicodin and flopped onto the sofa.

"You OK?" Wilson asked, sitting down next to his friend.

"Fine," House answered tiredly.

The pizzas arrived shortly and House devoured the food. Wilson was careful not to get his fingers in the way, he might get them snapped off by the voracious eater next to him. He wondered when House had eaten last…

Once the food was gone and House seemed satisfied, Wilson leaned up and reached for the TV remote, but House grabbed it first, shooting the younger man a dirty look. Wilson shrugged and rolled his eyes. House swung his leg up and propped his feet up on top of the coffee table, clicked the TV on and chose a movie channel, then settled back into the couch. But he didn't last long. House was fast asleep in 10 minutes.

_Bright white lights. Waves of horrible pain. Can't move. Tied down. Tight hand around his throat. A woman's face. Cruel grey eyes. Needles. IV in his arm. Alarms blaring. Can't breathe… No. No more. Stop… Stop… Stop…_

House was startled awake. Wilson's hands were on his shoulders, shaking him and calling his name.

"House, wake up!" Wilson was yelling. House jumped back, causing his legs to jerk off the coffee table and onto the floor. His leg immediately voiced it's disapproval with a sharp stab of pain. He grabbed his leg and sat there for a moment, gasping for air.

"That wasn't just a nightmare, was it?" Wilson finally asked, keeping his voice calm and even.

House shook his head, struggling to get his breathing back under control.

"What did you remember? What did you see?" he pressed.

House closed his eyes, took a deep breath and recounted everything from the terrible dream, before he forgot anything.

Wilson kept himself calm as he listened. Inside he felt raging anger and utter disbelief that something like this could happen to anyone, like the streets of Princeton had suddenly become some back alley in a third world country. But he perked up when he heard House say he saw a face. Maybe they were getting somewhere.

"You saw a woman's face?" He asked quickly. House nodded.

"I think she was the one injecting me," House said, his voice betraying how exhausted he was.

"You mean the one apparently torturing you," Wilson said bitterly.

"Yeah," House said with a sigh. "You know, you don't have to stay here and baby sit me…"

"Shut up, House," came Wilson's quick reply. "I'm not going anywhere."

House looked over at his annoyingly faithful friend.

"Fine," House groaned, slowly getting up. "Stay then. I'm going to bed." He forced himself to his feet and limped heavily down the hall.

Wilson heard him as he quickly settled into his bed, and he hoped the nasty dreams would hold off long enough for House to get some rest.

#####

They did, and House _was_ able to get some actual sleep. He had slept pretty well, and woke up ravenously hungry. The smell of coffee and bacon came drifting to him, making his stomach growl. Wilson must be making breakfast. He hauled himself out of bed, took a Vicodin, grabbed his cane and headed for the kitchen.

House devoured breakfast. Wilson had made enough bacon, scrambled eggs and toast to feed a small army, but it didn't last long.

House mumbled his thanks as he got up and headed back to the sofa, clicking on the TV again to catch the morning news.

"So, anything new from last night?" Wilson bellowed from the kitchen as he began stacking up the dirty pans and dishes in the sink.

"Nope," came the loud reply.

"I was maybe thinking you might want to go into work today," he bellowed.

"Nope," came the reply again.

Wilson shook his head as he ran some hot water to wash the dishes. He knew if he didn't, they would just sit there for a week. He heard the news broadcaster prattling on about some missing pharmaceutical research doctor being found. Something, something, whatever, whatever.

"House, I think we need to tell Cuddy," he hollered, knowing they would both be receiving demanding phone calls and voice mails from the Dean of Medicine if they didn't check in soon. But his friend didn't answer him.

"House?" he tried again. Eerie silence. Annoyed as much as concerned, he grabbed a towel and dried off his hands and walked into the living room. House was staring intently at the TV screen…

House hadn't been that interested in the news until he saw a photo of a pretty woman in a pink blouse and a white lab coat displayed on the screen. She had soft eyes, short black hair, a warm smile. He froze, staring at the photo. _I've seen her. I've talked to her. The blue vial. She is the blue vial_. He was immediately riveted, nothing else in the world existed. He listened intently to the broadcaster…

_And in other news, a young woman has been found after being missing for more than 4 months. Dr. Amanda Martelli, a prominent research doctor with Bently Pharmaceuticals, was discovered late last night, unconscious, in an abandoned warehouse in lower Manhattan. The details are sketchy, but the authorities report that Dr. Martelli had been brutally beaten and apparently tortured and left for dead. The barely alive doctor was rushed to New York Mercy Hospital under heavy security, where she is currently listed in critical condition, and is in a coma. Channel Seven will continue to follow this story and provide updates as they develop…_

"House…" Wilson was standing in the kitchen doorway, towel in his hands, studying him.

House looked up at his friend, then hoisted himself up off the couch and bolted to his desk on the other side of the room. He sat down and hurriedly shook the small wireless mouse, waking up his computer. He looked over at Wilson, still standing there with a questioning look.

"It's her," House told him.

Wilson's eyes went wide.

"Her? Who her? The woman who tortured you?" Wilson asked.

"No," answered House, shaking his head. The computer came out of hibernation and was fully on line. House tapped the keys. In moments, the photo of Dr. Amanda Martelli was full screen on the monitor.

"Her," House said, staring at the screen.

Then he pulled the blue vial out of his pocket and held it up, turning to his questioning friend. He nodded to the small glass vial and leveled his gaze at Wilson.

"Her," he said definitively. "We're going to New York…"

#####


	3. Chapter 3

**TRIAL & ERROR Chapter 3**

**The saga continues… House and Wilson head to New York, searching for more answers…**

**Rated M/Adult for language and mature themes (like ALL my stuff!!!), although this particular chapter is relatively tame…**

**All the usual and applicable disclaimers and warnings apply, such as don't like - don't read; I don't own House or any other characters, or anything or anybody else, blah, blah, blah…**

**NITEJASMINE**

TRIAL & ERROR, Chapter 3

House MD fanfic by NiteJasmine

#####

The trip to New York was arranged quickly. Wilson wondered what the hell they could possibly accomplish by going, since the person they were going to see was in a coma, in critical condition, and under heavy security. But he didn't question House about it. If it would help provide some answers about what had happened to him over the missing four days, then he would go along with it.

He had called Cuddy and given her a sketchy outline, vaguely hinting that House may have gotten into some trouble over the weekend, but not giving her too may details about House's injuries or his flashbacks. Cuddy said she would keep House's team occupied, and then she had sighed and said she was glad Wilson was helping him get things straightened out, and keep in touch with her. His next call was to his own office, where he had his staff clear off and reschedule his patient appointments for the next couple of days.

House packed a small, quick bag and tossed it into Wilson's car, and after stopping briefly at Wilson's place so he could grab a few things, they were heading north on the freeway towards the big apple.

#####

They were well on their way when Wilson finally asked.

"Just what exactly are you going to do once we get there House?" He asked quietly. "This Dr. Martelli is in a coma, and apparently under heavy security. You can't be expecting to just walk up to her bed, wake her up and have a chat."

"I'm hoping that seeing her will trigger some more memories," House answered. "When I saw her picture, I remembered her face, her voice. I know she can tell me about what's in the vial, and what happened to me. She's the key. I don't know how I know that, I just do," House paused. "And maybe she _will_ wake up and I can buy her a cup of coffee," he finished with a note of sarcasm.

Wilson snorted and nodded in reply. Then he added, "Just don't get your expectations set too high. We may get nothing by coming up here. The odds are that we may not even be able to get anywhere near her."

"I know," said House quietly, then turning to look out the side window at the scenery rushing past. He yawned, leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. "Wake me up when we're going to stop for food." House fell asleep and no ugly dreams interrupted his slumber this time.

"Sure," Wilson answered.

#####

After one food & fuel stop, they made good time and arrived at New York's Mercy Hospital, pulled into the Visitor's lot and found a parking spot. Wilson shut the engine off and the two men sat there in silence for a moment, staring out at the monstrously huge stone building.

"Try not to do anything that will get either of us arrested," Wilson offered.

"No promises," House countered. "Come on," he said, opening his door and climbing out. Wilson locked the car and they headed inside.

It was an unfamiliar layout, but a hospital is a hospital, and it didn't take them long to find their way to the ICU coma ward. They became more and more conspicuous as the brightness and steady hum of the rest of the hospital got further and further behind them.

They saw four black clad security guards at the entrance to one of the rooms down towards the end of the long hall they were in. Two were standing, the other two were sitting on a couple of padded conference chairs. House slowed his pace, Wilson slowed with him.

"Must be her room," House said, keeping his voice low. "And it's looks like shift change."

Wilson nodded in agreement. "So now what?" he asked.

"Follow my lead," House replied, still heading slowly down the hall, deliberately allowing enough time for the first two security guards to depart, leaving only two to deal with instead of four.

House put his best 'official' face as he quickly approached the last bit of distance to the room, and brashly reached for the door like he absolutely belonged there. The two security guards immediately grabbed him and pushed him back before his hand ever got to the doorknob. Looking quite offended, House stumbled back away from them, greatly exaggerating having difficulty keeping his balance.

"Hey!" House commanded loudly, "Watch the cane, you morons! Do you realize that you are assaulting and harassing a crippled doctor? You looking for a lawsuit or something? I have a witness!" He blurted, pointing to Wilson, who also did his best to look indignant.

The two guards stepped back, but blocked the doorway. One of them put his hands up, trying to shush the noisy man in front of him.

"Sir," the guard said, "Please, keep your voice down. And I'm sorry, but you cannot go in there. Authorized medical personnel only."

House gave the man a disgusted look.

"And just what do you think I am, the florist's errand boy?!" House railed, digging out his ID from PPTH from his pocket. He waved it quickly and closely in front of the guards face, as he spoke, but not letting either one get a really good look at it.

"Dr. Gregory, critical trauma specialist. My assistant, Dr. James," Wilson flashed his ID, just as quickly, as House contined. "I was summoned here all the way from Princeton and it has been a long drive," House continued loudly, pushing his way towards the door again, "so I would like to see my patient and get my evaluation done before the raiding hordes show up for their rounds of tests. Check with the administrator's office. We are authorized. So step aside, unless you want me to tack on interfering with medical treatment to a patient onto that lawsuit."

With that, House started to push between the guards towards the door again, but they refused to budge. Before House knew it, he had been spun around with an arm behind his back and was firmly shoved face first against the wall, Wilson quickly in the same position right next to him. One of the guards called for backup.

"Oh, this is great," muttered Wilson.

Three more security guards appeared as if my magic and the two visiting doctors were quickly searched, then ushered hurriedly straight to the Administrator's office.

#####

They were eventually shuffled into a large oversize office and seated in front of a balding, rotund man who collected their IDs and dismissed the security detail. The name plaque on the massive desk read _Dr. Thomas Varaldi, Hospital Administrator_. House looked around a bit as the man spoke briefly on the phone, checking and verifying their identities. Wilson wondered how long it would be before Cuddy started speed dialing his cell phone, demanding an explanation. Finally, Dr. Varaldi hung up the phone.

"Dr. Gregory House," the man said, handing both of their IDs back to them and looking squarely at House. "I've actually heard of you"

"Don't believe everything you hear," House countered, "All those charges were dropped."

The Administrator was not amused.

"So what brings two doctors from Princeton all the way up here to see one of my patients?" He asked, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands across his chest.

House briefly told his story.

"…so wherever Dr. Martelli was," House finished, "I was in the same place, at least for a little while. I was with her. I saw her, I talked to her. Whatever happened to me, she knows about it. She's the key. Maybe just seeing her can help me remember something. That's why I need to see her."

"That's a pretty wild story," Dr. Varaldi replied skeptically. "You expect me to buy the fact that you have no coherent memory of the last four full days? That's absolutely ridiculous. And kidnapping? Americans don't get kidnapped and tortured these days. I think you've been watching too many late night movies."

"Take a look at your patient doctor," House responded evenly. "That's exactly what happened to her. And to me."

The balding man narrowed his eyes at House.

"Why should I believe you?" he asked.

"Her wrists and ankles, they have bruises like these?" House pulled a sleeve up to show him the dark purple rings. They were only barely beginning to fade.

The man quickly leaned forward in his chair, his eyes going wide at the sight of the bruised wrists. This tall doctor with the cane was right, his patient did have the exact same bruise patterns.

"Where did you get those?" he demanded.

"That's what I'm trying to find out," House answered. "She has them, doesn't she?"

"Yes, she does," Varaldi reluctantly agreed. "And OK, I admit I'm intrigued. Maybe there's something to all this. But there's no point in letting you see her. She's comatose. It would solve nothing."

Wilson finally spoke up.

"But doctor, what could it hurt?" The young oncologist asked. "Maybe seeing her will help him remember something. And that could be very valuable to the authorities. I'm sure no one wants to be accused of interfering with an ongoing police investigation or have to deal with obstruction of justice charges."

House looked over at him with mildly raised eyebrows, impressed with the implied threat his friend had come up with.

Varaldi huffed, then shook his head.

"No," he said flatly. "And that's final. Besides, those aren't the only bruises she has. She took a savage beating and sustained some very serious injuries. Whoever did that to her dumped her and left her for dead. She's already recovering two complicated surgeries. And as long as she is a patient in my hospital, she is my responsibility. I am only looking out for her best interest. It's my job to keep her safe, to keep the vultures away from her. So, as much as I would like to help you, I'm really very sorry…"

The Administrator continued talking, but House was looking down at the floor, momentarily lost in another brief flashback. This one was even more disjointed.

_Amanda's face. Paddles in her hands. She saved his life. Blue vial. Amanda, next to his bed, protecting him. Buzzing tingle all over. Blue vial. Fear. Exhaustion. But no pain. Blue vial. Her soft, warm voice. "I'll stay here and keep the vultures away from you for a while, you should get some sleep…" The vultures…_

House snapped his eyes back up at the Administrator behind the desk, he was still talking.

"You're lying," House interrupted loudly, fixing a bold stare on the man.

"House…" Wilson said, a cautious warning tone to his voice.

"She's not in a coma," House continued, undeterred. "She's awake. And you've talked to her." House sat there with a smug look, then leaned forward on his own chair. "So why not give me my turn."

The big man was momentarily stunned. His mouth opened, but no words came out.

"Ten minutes," House continued, getting to his feet. "Just give me ten minutes. If she doesn't want to talk to me, I'll leave."

The Administrator sighed heavily, annoyed that this odd doctor had seen somehow seen through his lie.

"You've got five," he said finally, and also got up. "And I'm going with you."

House nodded. Varaldi walked past them and over to his office door. He paused and turned to House.

"How did you know?" He asked. "We've been keeping her in the coma ward for her safety, and the coma story has kept the media at bay. No one has had any reason to question it. So how the hell did you know she wasn't in a coma?"

"Keep the vultures away," House replied. "She said that."

"Yes, she did," he said, nodding. This guy was so intensely odd, but damn, he was dead on right. He still had serious doubts that there was anything to this wild story of his. But his young associate had been right, he could not risk the hospital being accused of obstruction of justice. And he had the feeling that this was just the kind of guy who would squawk to all holy hell to the media if he didn't at least humor him with this little visit to his patient.

#####

The Administrator cleared them past the two rather disgruntled security guards at the door, and the three men entered the softly lit room. It was silent except for the soft beeping of the full bank of monitors.

House paused, took a deep breath, and slowly approached the woman laying on the bed. The light was on over her head. Wilson came up and stood next to him, and gasped softly.

"Jesus," he heard the younger man whisper.

The woman was an absolute mess. She had IVs in each arm. There were blood filled drainage tubes filling several bags hung around the bottom of the bed. She was in a heavily medicated sleep, breathing in shallow, even breaths. Her face was covered with dark purple bruises. Her nose was bandaged, the oxygen tube taped in place. Her lip had been badly split open in two places and had small sutures holding the repairs closed. One eye was badly swollen. But House still recognized her.

Varaldi walked to her and gently rubbed her arm, calling her name in a firm but gentle voice and asking her to wake up. She finally fluttered her eyes open with a light groan.

The Administrator stepped back, and House moved up next to her bed, where she could easily see his face. She looked up at him blankly. Then slowly, he saw her struggle to focus, and then he saw the dawning look of recognition in her eyes.

"Greg." She finally managed to say, barely moving her injured mouth. She laid there just staring at him.

"Yeah, that's me," House said gently.

"Holy shit," Varaldi said in disbelief. "She really _does _know you."

"I was wrong," she said slowly to House, holding his gaze.

Then Amanda suddenly looked very frightened, and tears began pooling up in her eyes. She turned her head and looked away, then closed her eyes, the tears spilling down her bruised cheeks. She took a slow, trembling breath.

"I was so wrong..." she whispered.

#####

TBC…


End file.
